“There’s things you need to know I didn’t tell you this afternoon.”
Ambrose’s expression changed from anger to pain. “You’re right. I need to know who the sonovabitch was who carved her up after she ran off with him.” He spoke quietly, with a promise of violence to come. “After I find out where she’s been and who she lit out with, then I’ll worry about the future.”
Hamilton stopped him in the middle of the dusty stair tread with his next words. “Sheriff Potter said he found her in the desert three years back. Someone had beaten her pretty bad, tortured her with a knife and left her to die.”
Quincy froze, knowing from Ham’s expression there was more.
Hamilton said grimly, “Potter said she’d been messed with—by an unknown man or men. Nobody in Buffalo Creek thought she’d live.”
Ambrose swallowed the bile rising in his throat. She’d been hurt and he hadn’t been there to protect her. He hadn’t even found her afterward. “So she’s been less than three days’ ride away from me for the whole duration? Why didn’t the sheriff send for me?”
Ham shook his head. “How could she tell him about you if she didn’t know her own name? Something happened inside her head. Apparently, her memories really are gone.”
Ambrose didn’t know what to believe. Buffalo Creek wasn’t the other side of the world, and fancy Boston women were scarce. He was sure if Lucy had been that close, someone would have recognized her and told him. He said as much to Hamilton.
Hamilton hadn’t been an admirer of Lucy’s. They’d sniped at each other often, and she’d tried to get Ambrose to kick him off the ranch. But, bad blood or not, Ham looked sick when he relayed his information.
“Potter said he was new around these parts and hadn’t heard of the Double-Q or us. Not knowing whether it was a relative, an acquaintance or a stranger who’d cut her up, he kept his mouth shut about her. Afterward, when she’d recovered some, she didn’t push to leave or remember. He said she stayed back in the kitchen cooking and baking all the time and never came out in daylight unless it was to practice her shooting. At night, she shared a room over the café with a woman named Roberta Harris, her partner in the Robin’s Nest Café. According to the sheriff, this last year was the first she’d spoken to any man, including him.”
Ambrose started up the stairs. Goddammit, I’ll kill whoever did this to her. His breath was labored, imagining her terror and pain when the man she’d run off with betrayed and abused her. “She should have remembered me,” he muttered.
Hamilton’s words followed him. “I think she did. She named herself Quincy.”
Ambrose considered Ham’s words as he walked down the hall toward their bedroom. He’d had too many shocks to sort it all out today, but he had to have another look at her, one more glimpse of his wife to prove to himself it was really her.
He knocked on the door, trying to think of what he’d say if she let him in. But when it opened and she faced him, he forgot everything but how much he’d missed her. Before she could escape, he gathered her in a clumsy bear hug, lifting her off her feet as he held her close.
“Welcome home, Lucy.” His kiss landed behind her ear as she jerked her head away. When he set her back on her feet, she stood trembling and pale.
He couldn’t resist touching her and ran his thumb across her bottom lip, feeling her breath hitch as she tried to appear calm.
His decision was made. He said gruffly, “You were missed every day you were gone. This is your home. I want you to stay.” He turned away, noticing the gun hanging limply from her hand. “Be careful you don’t shoot yourself in the foot—or me in the ass.” The door clicked shut on his muttered words as he walked down the hall.
When he returned downstairs, he found Hamilton waiting. “What are you going to do?” his brother asked.
“I’m going to thank God
Ambrose’s expression changed from anger to pain. “You’re right. I need to know who the sonovabitch was who carved her up after she ran off with him.” He spoke quietly, with a promise of violence to come. “After I find out where she’s been and who she lit out with, then I’ll worry about the future.”
Hamilton stopped him in the middle of the dusty stair tread with his next words. “Sheriff Potter said he found her in the desert three years back. Someone had beaten her pretty bad, tortured her with a knife and left her to die.”
Quincy froze, knowing from Ham’s expression there was more.
Hamilton said grimly, “Potter said she’d been messed with—by an unknown man or men. Nobody in Buffalo Creek thought she’d live.”
Ambrose swallowed the bile rising in his throat. She’d been hurt and he hadn’t been there to protect her. He hadn’t even found her afterward. “So she’s been less than three days’ ride away from me for the whole duration? Why didn’t the sheriff send for me?”
Ham shook his head. “How could she tell him about you if she didn’t know her own name? Something happened inside her head. Apparently, her memories really are gone.”
Ambrose didn’t know what to believe. Buffalo Creek wasn’t the other side of the world, and fancy Boston women were scarce. He was sure if Lucy had been that close, someone would have recognized her and told him. He said as much to Hamilton.
Hamilton hadn’t been an admirer of Lucy’s. They’d sniped at each other often, and she’d tried to get Ambrose to kick him off the ranch. But, bad blood or not, Ham looked sick when he relayed his information.
“Potter said he was new around these parts and hadn’t heard of the Double-Q or us. Not knowing whether it was a relative, an acquaintance or a stranger who’d cut her up, he kept his mouth shut about her. Afterward, when she’d recovered some, she didn’t push to leave or remember. He said she stayed back in the kitchen cooking and baking all the time and never came out in daylight unless it was to practice her shooting. At night, she shared a room over the café with a woman named Roberta Harris, her partner in the Robin’s Nest Café. According to the sheriff, this last year was the first she’d spoken to any man, including him.”
Ambrose started up the stairs. Goddammit, I’ll kill whoever did this to her. His breath was labored, imagining her terror and pain when the man she’d run off with betrayed and abused her. “She should have remembered me,” he muttered.
Hamilton’s words followed him. “I think she did. She named herself Quincy.”
Ambrose considered Ham’s words as he walked down the hall toward their bedroom. He’d had too many shocks to sort it all out today, but he had to have another look at her, one more glimpse of his wife to prove to himself it was really her.
He knocked on the door, trying to think of what he’d say if she let him in. But when it opened and she faced him, he forgot everything but how much he’d missed her. Before she could escape, he gathered her in a clumsy bear hug, lifting her off her feet as he held her close.
“Welcome home, Lucy.” His kiss landed behind her ear as she jerked her head away. When he set her back on her feet, she stood trembling and pale.
He couldn’t resist touching her and ran his thumb across her bottom lip, feeling her breath hitch as she tried to appear calm.
His decision was made. He said gruffly, “You were missed every day you were gone. This is your home. I want you to stay.” He turned away, noticing the gun hanging limply from her hand. “Be careful you don’t shoot yourself in the foot—or me in the ass.” The door clicked shut on his muttered words as he walked down the hall.
When he returned downstairs, he found Hamilton waiting. “What are you going to do?” his brother asked.
“I’m going to thank God
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